>Eulogy to Ibuka
>by Mrs. Yoshiko Morita
>Ibuka-san,
>I first met you forty-seven years ago, before I was married to Morita. We were young: you in your forties, Morita in his thirties, and I in my twenties. I remember vividly my impression when we met at the Morita house. A somewhat frail and easily embarrassed young man, you seemed pure, earnest, and very gentle. As time passed, you and my husband and I shared many experiences known only to us, precious memories.
>Four years ago, your condition suddenly worsened, and Morita and I had many sleepless nights. Before long, Morita was also stricken. When he was moved to the hospital room next to yours after his close call with death, you encouraged each other. When you left the hospital, you visited back and forth between your house in Mita and ours in Aobadai. Though you could barely speak, you called aloud to my husband to cheer him, "Akio! Akio!" Morita's head was lowered, his gaze on the floor. But you gripped each other's hands. Three years ago, Morita moved to Hawaii to convalesce, and you telephoned him there. Your voice at the other end of the phone was strong: "Akio, hold on!" Recently, your voice had grown weaker, and then you ceased to call.
>On December 18, I returned to Tokyo to get ready for the New Year. For three years, I had always gone straight to your house from the airport, and when I phoned from the car, you were already hovering on the brink of death. I suppose you were waiting for me to return. I spent a sleepless night at home, and just as I dozed off, the telephone rang. It was 3:40 AM; you had taken your last breath two minutes earlier, at 3:38. I rushed to your house and gripped your hand. I rested my check against your face. I was still warm. Your face was peaceful.
>I knew what I had to do but was unable to do it. In Hawaii, the sun was already up. But how could I bring this news to my husband on the phone? It was all I could do to instruct this news the nurse who answered to hide the newspapers and keep Morita away from television and the radio. The night of the wake, I was asked to write something to read for my husband at the family funeral. I worked all night until down in tears, struggling to compose a brief message that I felt my husband might have written if her were able. The day of the family service, I asked the priest to read it.
>I returned to Honolulu immediately. Morita met me at the door, but I was unable to tell him the news. The following morning, I took a deep breath in our garden and said as casually as I was able, "Ibuka-san has finally gone to his rest." He peered into my face. Then he gasped - "Aah!" - and burst into tears. He looked down and continued to gasp and sob. I read him the message I had composed. "Was this acceptable?" I asked him. "If so, please squeeze my hand." Morita gripped my hand tightly, looked up at the white clouds in the blue sky, and quietly wept. As I was leaving again to be here today, I explained that I intended to read the message myself this time and asked for his approval. He nodded his head vigorously, as if he were entreating me. Dear Ibuka-san, please listen once again to my husband's words to you.
>"Ibuka-san: you've finally set out on your journey to a new world. I met you first during the war, more than fifty years ago. Fifty-one years have passed since we made our company. In good times and in bad, we where always together. Now we are apart, but let us watch together over the next generation as they make their way through these difficult times.
>I will not say good-bye. I am certain that we shall meet again one day. It is only a matter of waiting.
>Ibuka-san, please accept my heartfelt gratitude for the wonderful life you have given to me. I thank you from the bottom of my heart."


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